PS 3515 

1911 
copy 3 



YRICS AND SONNETS 



LOUIS HOW 




LA PniXCESSE PREXD L'AIR 



PAINTED BY NATHANIEL COBB 

AND NOW IN THE POSSESSION 

OF MISS RXn^TZ-REES 

ROSEMARY HAI.I-, GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT 



LYRICS AND SONNETS 



BY 

LOUIS HOW 




BOSTON 

SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 

1911 



Copyright, 1911 
Sherman, French <S^» Company 






©CI.A2S9950^ 



TO 

MY MOTHER 



CONTENTS 

LYRICS 

SLAVIC FOLK-SONG 

" POOR tom's A-COLD '* 

HENLEY 

the nursery 
Christ's doves 

THE tower 

our lady of apparent failure 

the stripes 

lanterns 

a head in the glyptothek 

SOLACE 

BROWNING IN VENICE 

HANDS 

shepherd's SONG 

YOUR TROPHY 

ILLUSION 

SENTIMENTALITY 

SORROW AND YOU AND I 

SALTARELLO 

NOTRE CCEUR 

FOR REMEMBRANCE 

A CYNICAL SENTIMENTALIST 



SONNETS 



THE SALT MEADOWS 

RAIN 

" DU BIST DIE RUH " 

A LIVING LIFE 

LA PRINCESSE PREND l'aiR 

THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY 

A NIGHT VISION 

THE FAUN I II 

SUGGESTION 

SAN LORENZO, FUORI LE MURA 

ACCEPTANCE 

SPRING IN ROME 

A NEW MAN I II 

COURAGE 

pain's use 

EPITAPH 

THE INSIDIOUS VOICE 

VILLA MEDICI 

SANTA RESTITUDINE 

EXHORTATION 



LYRICS 



SLAVIC FOLK-SONG 

ADAPTED 

Nothing was whiter, I used to say, 
Than your little body. Every way 
I was enraptured and ravished : naught 
Of feeling stronger than that, I thought 

Ah, but today ! Today I know. 
You are whiter far than a week ago. 
And the feeling I have as I stoop to kiss,- 
The other was weak as the dust to this ! 



" POOR TOM'S A-COLD " 

" Poor Tom's a-cold ! " The wintry wind 

Turns into bitter ice the rain 
Soaking his mantle. " Never mind," 

Says Patience ; " Summer comes again." 

" Poor Tom's a-cold ! " However chill 
His heart, it has the warmth to yearn 

For vanished love and hope. " Be still," 
Says Patience ; " Youth will not return." 



HENLEY 

His " songs were once of the sunrise" ; 
Thej are of the sunrise yet, 

With the birds to the dawn full-throating 
And the green marsh-grasses wet, 

And the wisps of pink clouds floating 
Like birds of a higher wing : 
To him it is ever sunrise. 

It is always youth and spring. 

He sings to his sweetheart, singing ; 
And this is his song's chief theme : 

It is good to be men as we are men. 
And to front the sun's first beam 

Naked and frank, — what then ! 
Living our life is the thing ! 
His lust is a wholesome singing; 
It is always youth and spring. 

Sorrow keeps dogging us always — 
Drown what we can in drink ! 

What overreaches us, scorn it ; 
Pain cannot make a man shrink. 

For the sake of the joys we've borne it, 
Life with its sudden sting; 
And so were we glad to always, — 
It is always youth and spring ! 



THE NURSERY 

Reflected in his mother's eyes 

He lies upon the hay, 
And jewelled toys of kingly size 

Are his, if he would play. 

He is too weak, too small : 

He stares at the stars o'erhead, 

Till a rapture moves among them all 
To dance above the shed. 



CHRIST'S DOVES 

The child Christ played 

With other little boys, 
Made 

Them little clay doves for toys. 

"Fly, little bird!" 

He said, and they 
Heard 

His voice and flew away. 

Foolish little things ! 

For if I possessed 
Wings, 

I'd fly and nestle on his breast. 



THE TOWER 

Your lofty lonely tower is round, 

Carven with marble lace. 
There is often little sound: 

I have even seen your face. 

So swiftly the years have murmured past, 

There is nothing I have done. 
I am of lowly caste, — 

You are the height of the sun. 

Though you were benignly to stoop your 
birth, 

Your life is a gem-cut goal ; 
And I have remained near earth, — 

There must be caste in soul. 

Your tower were scorned could a weakling 
scale : 

Thank God that is higher, higher, — 
Divinely beyond my pale ! 

It is good always to aspire. 



OUR LADY OF APPARENT FAILURE 

The old, old thought is all I have of thee. 

Thy hair is dead, thy kiss long gone, thy 
voice 
I dream of thee as sitting by the Blessed 
Mother's knee; 
And thy gentle, gentle singing makes her 
grievous heart rej oice. 

All the soul I had 

Was a shade of thy sweet soul's reflec- 
tion . . . 
The Queen of Golden Heaven for her dead 
Christ is sad. 
And thy singing is her only one delection. — 

O Christ, O Christ, I cannot dare to tell 

My sinning since she's gone from me, for 
fear 

Lest, while I'm burning evermore in hell. 
Her song, her song may be too far to hear. 



THE STRIPES 

I WAKE, and the darkness is still : I lie 
Yearning with peace in my bed, — 

Such peace as I hope for after I die ; 
Perhaps even now I'm dead. 

The dawn comes making my window grey. 

Morning is sombre and chill ; 
And I am not dead: it's another day. 

But I still can sleep, and I will. 

But I only doze, and a dingy flock 

Of memories gather, mute 
And mocking. There thunders a sudden 
knock! 

I spring for my prison suit. 



LANTERNS 

Thus we look, thus others think 

And others say we are. 
Day must bring us meat and drink. 

But night will bring a star. 

The night will bring a cooling breeze 

And the quiet of a room. 
Lie still, lie still ! 'Tis nights like these 

Hang lanterns in the tomb. 



A HEAD IN THE GLYPTOTHEK 

To love this sweetly-coloured, perfect face, 
Suffused so calmly with an ordered grace. 
That were to have a love forever sure, 
Incapable of roaming, still demure; 

A love recipient on whom to spend 
Untroubled faith till life and loving end ; 
A love who certainly would never start 
A flame of apprehension in your heart. 

No, nor of expectation, to arouse 
Those longings supersensual where house 
Our faith and hope and tenderness. Above 
All beauty, what we cling to most is love : 

Something that will respond and understand. 
And tremble to the pressure of a hand ; 
Imperfect, inexpressive, yet complete 
In yearning to be ever strong and sweet. 



SOLACE 

My soul dies for the want 

Of love. Old dreams that haunt 

My soul are very grey and gaunt. 

You are so far away, 

Who with a kiss could stay 

My longings every night and day. 

Then hold it not amiss 

I long for any kiss, 

Rather than be reduced like this 

To hunger in distress, 

Unable to possess 

The greater comfort or the less ; — 

And through the days of pain. 

Spoiled with unceasing rain, 

That I must reach with gnawing pain 

Toward any minor love 

That might remind me of 

Your tenderness, your touch, above 

All longing, all desire, — 
That sheer and utter fire 
To even whose pale glow and specious 
shadow I aspire. 



BROWNING IN VENICE 

I NEVER saw him but in print, 

That Browning whom I praise and prize, 
Who'd pack the whole world in a hint 

And open heaven to our eyes. 

However, had I seen him here. 

My first proceeding were t' uncover; 

My next, to tell him, " Master dear. 
All of mankind loves a lover. 

" And a lover loves the earth. 

In and outside and around it : 
You are one ordained by birth 

Capable of love, who found it; 

" Out of many million souls 

One, for whom the world was good, 

Since the centre where it rolls 
Was exactly what you would." 

Browning would have smiled and said, 
" Each man has his proper credo. 

'Ware the sunshine on your head! 
Are you going to the Lido ? " 



HANDS 

If eyes can speak, then hands, 
For one who understands 
Their melody, can sing 
The sole important thing. 

The mouth and even eyes 
Are capable of lies : 
But what hearts really feel 
The fingers can't conceal. 

So two that always go 
With hand in hand, can know 
All things, can still be sure 
That love is quite secure. 



SHEPHERD'S SONG 

VALDANIENE 

My coat on my shoulder, the mountains ahead, 
I stand on the hill-top and play to my sheep. 

Five are the notes of my willow fife ; 

They make me laugh and they make me weep. 

The sunset is red, but the sunset is cold. 

Down in the valley the reapers still sing. 
Candles light up in the village below. 

I wait for the girl and the bread she will 
bring. 

Now I am hungry and now I am tired. 

Night in the open is lonely and chill, 
I will play louder, perhaps she will hurry ; 

Girls may get frightened alone on a hill. 



YOUR TROPHY 

When I have crawled, worn out with tears. 
Crushed by the sorrow of all my years, 
Which suddenly has bowed me, piled 
Upon my neck, you never smiled, 

Reproaching me or comforting ; 
But have accepted what I bring, 
Sat silent, let me grip you tight. — 
This is your trophy which I write. 



ILLUSION 

Being alone, I find 

The world more real, more kind. 

If I sit still, I hear 

A voice well-known and dear. 

If, while I hold me dumb. 
The mouth would only come 
And give my mouth a kiss 
One half so real as this, 

I would sit here all day 
Wasting my life away, 
Tasting that heavenly touch. 
And grieving not so much. 



SENTIMENTALITY 

How sentimental and brave was I 

In the beautiful flaming days of my youth ! 
" It is better to die for a lovely lie," 

I said, " than to live with an ugly truth. 

" It is better to think there are some men true 
And tender, that love after all exists, 

And to stake one's fate on the unfound few, 
Though it fasten a chain around the wrists. 

" Fettered, with heaven inside the cell. 
Is better than starving of soul and free. 

For I cannot dwell in these streets of hell 

Which other men's minds have arranged for 



Such was the sentimental stuff 

That I thought, for it fitted my youthful will. 
" Life is good enough, if we are brave enough ! " 

I believed. And by heaven, I believe it still! 



SORROW AND YOU AND I 

Sorrow and you and I, — 

More of a biting bliss 
Here, than when casual pleasures fly 

Flocking around a kiss. 

Let us cling tight, we three ! 

Joy has no deeper pang. 
I see your sad eyes, I dream of the sea, 

I remember a song you sang. 

Others eat joy and laugh. 

We of the half-guessed smile 
Envy them not ! they know but the half : 

Love lasts a little while. 

But love that is turned to pain. 

Shared as by you and me, 
Searches us through, makes us over 
again. 

And lasts everlastingly. 



SALTARELLO 

VAIiDANIENE 

Dark in a comer a faun of a fellow, 

Clad in a sheepskin from shoulders to hips, 
Drones from a bag-pipe a gay saltarello. 
And out of the laughing crowd Cesare slips : 
He clutches Francesco and drags him awhirl. 
And the two, with eyes gleaming, cigars in 
their lips, — 
Out of which the blue spirals incessantly curl, — 
Begin balancing, elbows a-kimbo. The 

crowd 
Press around in a circle, one pulls back a girl. 
The room becomes hazy with smoke; and the 
loud 
And regular rhythm of the music keeps going. 
The pair in the centre, now upright, now 
bowed. 
Advancing, retreating, with jumps, heel-and- 
toeing. 
Keep excellent time. And the rest, one by 

one. 
Resort to a keg where the red wine is flowing,, 
And draining a glassful r^urn to the fun. 
Luigi, whose heels are beginning to tickle. 
Darts out from the circle. When he has be- 
gun 



To balance to Cesare, hardy and fickle, 

Francesco retires, with mopping of brow. 

Thereon Pasqua Rosa, as keen as a pickle. 
Who sees that her husband is in for it now 

To dance half the evening, withdraws with 
shy glances 

Beyond the excitement and heat of the row, 
Beyond all the noise of the music and dances. 

And out of the garden-door, into the air. 

Warm, fragrant with peach-blossom. Then, 
as it chances 
Pasquale strolls after and catches her there. 

She escapes from his arms, and excited at 
this. 

He redoubles his efforts, she falls in the snare, 
He removes his cigar and he gives her a kiss. 



NOTRE CGEUR 

I KEEP a love to embrace, 

And one to cling to. 
One has a changing face, 

The which I sing to: 

And is for me the night 
Of moonbeams fingering 

Silence and shade, hushed light. 
And odours lingering 

In stolen garden spot, 

To full ecstatic 
Witchery, heavy, hot, 

Unenigmatic. 

The other is a warm, 
Slow-moving morning : 

Unwearied, patient form ! 
Without a warning 

I weep upon its lap ; 

Say nothing, maybe ; 
Then soothed, turn over, nap. 

Calm as a baby. 



FOR REMEMBRANCE 

Plant me a little flower, 
Show me a constant star, 

Which, in the fatal hour 
When you no longer are 

(Dead or alive, who knows? 

To me no longer you: 
The second person grows 

A third, when lost to view) , 

One, with its mild perfume. 
One, with its twinkling beam, 

May bring into my room 
The image of this dream. 

So real, my heart shall yearn 
Toward now ; shall suffer pain 

Wishing that it might burn 
With love for you again. 



A CYNICAL SENTIMENTALIST 

Use me, 

If it give you pleasure ; 

Throw me, if you will, away : 

Still the stars will not abuse me; 

I can measure 

My remaining strength against the day. 

Morning 

And the dewy stretches 

Where the sunshine falls oblique. 

Will accept me without scorning. 

All poor wretches 

Find the mountains silent when they speak. 

Cattle 

Pasturing together 

Will regard with kindly eyes 

Him who's vanquished in the battle : 

And the weather 

Darken not when desperation cries. 

Breezes 

Blowing o'er the ocean 

Fan the countenance of woe, 

And the patient water eases 

With its motion 

Whomsoever lays him down below. 



Knowing 

This, I have a feeling, — 

Knowing too the human mind, — 

Sorrow will not be long going; 

I'll be stealing 

Kisses presently from one more kind. 

Taken 

With this understanding. 

Let's be prodigal of kisses : 

Either you or I may waken 

On the landing 

Where the stairs ascend to better blisses. 



SONNETS 



THE SALT MEADOWS 

Lovely are those salt meadows where the sea 
Sings low. They have a rampart of live 

rocks, 
With tidal pools whose every starfish mocks 
In purple pallor what frail flowers there be 

Among the brackish grass ; the breezes free 
Glisten with foam; on the horizon flocks 
Of fishing-boats are standing. — Here with 

locks 
Wind-blown and blond comes my heart's dear 
with me. 

We loaf together, albeit there is set 

A gulf profound dividing her from me far ; 
Which is my love, — o'er it can neither go. 

And yet we're very near each other, yet 

We are happy in the sunshine. Lovely are 
Those salty meadows where the sea sings low. 



RAIN 

The rain's incessant murmur in the air 

Wakes the attention, keeps it breathed, alert. 
Embrowned by wet, familiar things exert 
Deeper impressions; there is something rare 

About the tree-trunks in the public square. 
The listless sparrows, far from being pert, 
Huddle beneath a stoop ; while dogs, inert. 
Hold, with their eyes askance, some casual 
lair. 

The solitude, the silence of a city 

Drenched and deserted, strike the wayfarer; 
His sight, his fancy see the world more 
clearly ; 

It seems more real. — And thus the eyes of pity 
Discern in weeping faces character 
A sunny smile has not, or latent merely. 



" DU BIST DIE RUH' " 

In an old German saying is expressed 
The sentiment of everything I write : 
You are not merely my extreme delight, 
But infinitely more, — you are my rest. 

You are the realm beyond the East and West, 
Whose tempered sun is perfect to the sight ; 
You are the hush within the deep of night, 
When weary hands lie heavy on the breast. 

Out of the friction of all human life 

The sparks keep flying, and make history ; 
While seers half-blinded dream, beyond the 
lands 

Of night and morning, a calm mystery 
Wherein is no more troubling. 

From the strife 
I creep into my haven between your hands. 



A LIVING LIFE 

To bathe in sunshine all the livelong day, — 
From when the silvery dew upon the grass 
Vanishes wetly in the rays that pass 
Athwart the apple-branches, pink and grey, — 

Through the long noon which drives the cows 
away 
To pasture-corners where the shadows 

mass, — 
And the long waning afternoon : alas ! 
Its hours, a series of lingering deaths are 
they,— 

Till the huge sun sinks downward 'mid the gold, 
Touches the earth, and leaves it to the dark, — 
And then to watch the stars beloved of old, 

Come tentatively forth, till they are rife 
In over half the world the eye can mark — 
That were in truth to lead a living life. 



LA PRINCESSE PREND L'AIR 

FOR A PICTURE 

Remembrances of her far Eastern land 

Flocked in the loggia: with her eyes half- 
closed, 
The Princess brooded o'er them while she 

dozed. 
The feathered Amazon, elect to stand 
Behind her naked shoulder, calmly scanned 
The sunshine disapprovingly. Light posed, — 
Arms on the wall, — the other lady glozed 
In fancy, on the passing horsemen's band. 
Thus were they often situate years ago. 

Each of the three with silent longing 

worked, — 
A trinity of melancholy leisure. 
Thus on the canvas fixed, they richly glow, 
They and the sorry beauty where they 

lurked, — 
Deathless but without pain, to bring us pleas- 
ure. 



THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY 

ROME 

I KNOW not who was Caius Cestius. 

His pyramid is by the city gate, 

Where rows of cypress, standing black and 
straight, 

Mark their own city, quiet, ominous. 
Poor little Keats, no longer amorous. 

Or unrequited, lies there, now grown great: 

And Shelley, who may be aware — too 
late? — 

If he was right or merely marvellous. 
Certain have knowledge of heaven ; I have none. 

I were content to learn the earth beneath. 

The hearts of men, the secrets in them hid. 
Knowing, perhaps I'd long that life were done 

And I were lying, careless of a wreath, 

Near Cams Cestius's pyramid. 



A NIGHT VISION 

Vague in the shadowy moonlight on the lawn, — 
Seen and unseen while weaving a design 
Around and round the silver-columned pine, 
There came last night and danced a naked 
faun. 
Danced long and all alone; and I withdrawn, 
Breathless behind my shutter, — drunk, as 

wine 
Could never make me, — gazed these eyes of 

mine 
Tired, though I was not sleepy, — till the 
dawn. 
I'd no impetuous longing to be beckoned 
To throw aside my clothing and descend 
And join his gladsome riot on the dew. 
But heartily I yearned, — and every second 
Redoubles yearning until absence end, — 
For you there, close beside me, breathless too. 



THE FAUN 



The Greeks have left us evidence in art 

How good and charming man might still have 

been, 
Had he remained more natural, and not seen 
Complex desires blossom in his heart. 
They made the frolic faun, species apart 
From normal man, grosser but more serene, 
Slightly though plainly bestial, and yet 

clean, — 
Man uncorrupted by the school and mart ; 
And debonair. Whether he brings the wine. 
Or sits on the emptying wine-sack, whether 

skips 
Balancing on his wand, or pipes divine 
And simple music that naively slips 

Sweet on the air, — his eyes with laughter 

shine 
And always there's a tune upon his lips. 



THE FAUN 

II 

Seeking to catch it, let it then behove 
Our wisdom to consider less the taint 
Of animality, well-marked but faint, 
Than the serenity where we see him move, 

Slipping along the self-same heavenly groove 
Where the sun and the other stars, without 

constraint. 
Are moved by love. The most unworldly 

saint 
And he, teach the same lesson, — teach and 
prove. 

Too often we expect some mighty deed 

To mark off one from another sacred day; 
Too often into grief and mourning read 

Some clearer sense than joy could e'er display. 
The fauns proclaim the secret lore we need: 
They know a sacred reason to be gay. 



SUGGESTION 

The wreath of yellow daisies on her locks 
Showed lovelier than they, whose only boast 
Was youthful fulness. And her eyes at 

most 
Had but the deep tranquillity of the ox. 
Her breath came sweetly from a mouth that 
mocks 
Without enchanting. Even when engrossed 
In lively games, her movements lacked the 

ghost 
Of grace. She was less pretty than her 
frocks. 
And yet, the faun that dances on my shelf 
Was, unto her, a candle to a star. 
He is a thing of beauty ; she an elf 
Who conjures dreams of beauty better far. 
For though she is not lovely in herself, 
She makes us think, how lovely children are. 



SAN LORENZO, FUORI LE MURA 

TO P. F. 

Saint Lawrence, Christian martyr, suffered 
here. 
Smooth greenish marble monoliths align 
Their sturdy forms in his decorous shrine: 
The altar stands beneath a strange, austere, 

And colonnaded baldaquin: there peer 
From out mosaics oddly Byzantine, 
Prophets and Christ sinisterly divine. 
Mute witnesses of their millennial year. 

Church of your predilection : underhand 

But noble ; formal, — baffling : in whose style. 
So tender and so cold, you imaged me. 

That chill dim heavy cloister, with its brand 
Of carnal worship, in how swift a while 
Sank overwhelming in our memory. 



ACCEPTANCE 

Life lures with many a splendid bribe the 
traitor 
To merely his own vague and subtle soul : 
A slight concession of a barren Pole 
May earn a kingly realm below the Equator. 

Again, life lacks the casual instigator; 
There's no one on the road to levy toll, 
No one to tempt us toward or from a goal ; 
No cohort to proclaim me imperator. 

The way that we receive, await, reject, — 
The attitude wherein we laugh or groan, — 
Outvalues all the guerdons we expect. 

Our manner toward the universe, alone 
Gauges our worth. Unable to select 
Life's offers, yet acceptance is our own. 



SPRING IN ROME 

From the exalted garden, — where, afar. 
Upon the dim Campagna, the low sky. 
Pallid with subdued brightness, drops to 

lie, — 
I saw the sea, aglitter like a star : 

And felt no more the wintry winds that are. 

But felt the spring. The moment going by 

Filled me with languorous ecstasy, and I, — 

Rapt in a day-dream, — lay on sands that 

bar 

With golden bound, the ever-surging ocean 
From the warm soft sweet shores of Italy. 
I knew the restless ache of spring's commo- 
tion; 

And, as a part of Nature's entity 

I had the lust to lie, drinking her potion, 
Desirous, yet contented just to be. 



A NEW MAN 



When I arise each morning from my bed, 

It is a person new-created rises ; 

Ready to wage the battle for life's prizes, 

Untroubled by the past, for that is dead. 
Beyond polite apology, what's said 

Of yesterday is vain : a smile suffices. 

And if tomorrow offer mere surmises. 

My wounds are healed which overnight still 
bled. 
Today brings opportunity enough 

For exercising energy and pluck. 

My bungled doings extant furnish stuff 
To work anew with better skill. And luck. 

Who heretofore was only strange or gruff, 

May now disclose a golden lead unstruck. 



A NEW MAN 



Therefore will I arise and get me hence 

And say not, " O my Father, I have sinned ! " 
But let it go, keep mum, preserve my wind 
To tackle the next mountain ; count my pence. 

And in the tavern, like a man of sense, 

Buy me of eggs and coffee, and something 

tinned, 
That, when I reach the summit where I've 

pinned 
My hope, I still have body's maintenance. 

But I'll divide my meagre store in two. 
And on provisions not expend the whole: 
I'll buy a stalk of blossoms, white in hue 

And sweet in smell, to carry to the goal ; 
For breakfast nourishes the flesh, it's true. 
But the narcissus-flower feeds the soul. 



COURAGE 

'Tis foolishness to call existence good ; 

Mere lack of observation to cry, bad ; 

Futile to think to better it. What we've had 

On this inchoate earth, in likelihood 
We'd have again. We are not merely wood, 

But furnished out with brains ; and we are 
mad 

Unless we struggle against being sad. 

Cowardice was the hill where my cross stood. 
We know not who is moving us at will, 

" Impotent pieces " : but we surely know. 

Unable to resist the movement, still 
We can resist not caring where we go. 

We can cry out beneath the knocks that kill, 

" Heads up ! But I require a harder blow ! " 



PAIN'S USE 

The secret is, — to make your sorrow sing, 
And join the unheard choruses exhaling 
From tragedies of happinesses failing. 
From every bent and bitter, futile thing. 

Learn to enjoy the anguishes that bring 
A sure empiric to the heart sore ailing 
Behind the cheap misunderstandings veiling 
That beauty pressed from hearts hard sorrows 
wring. 

If it were fed on sweets alone, the palate 
Would sicken and the appetite would die. 
There needs the ruthless pounding of a mallet 

To fill the counterpoint of life. A cry 

Is not discordant to a laugh. Fate's valet, 
Pain, brushes garments which are you and I. 



EPITAPH 

Here lies the languid body of my friend : 
One who was valiant, intimate, and gay, 
A little pensive, brave in his array, 
Tender to point of anguish, hard to bend. 

Nobly he sought, but uselessly, to lend 
His native mind to what the churches say. 
And when death took him suddenly away, 
Which was it, a beginning or an end ? 

For me left here behind him, he is no more. 
Who was my mate-in-arms, my playfellow, 
My confidant, my solace in despair. 

I had not visited his grave before. 

The rest have all forgotten him, I know. 
And I who do remember, scarcely care. 



THE INSIDIOUS VOICE 

Who is it speaking softly to my soul 

In cautious words of augury and wonder, — 
Saying, not alone the timorous go under, 
Nor do the valiant always reach the goal: 

Saying again, the weary world will roll 

As well 'mid hush of peace as roar of thunder. 
For everything is not achieved by plunder, 
And none can tell us who is in control . . . ? 

At first I listen breathlessly, and ask. 
Will not this enemy behind the door 
Purloin my gods from off the sacred shelf? 

I shout, to hinder his subversive task 

Against my soul : and when I hear no more 
I recognize the voice, — my soul itself. 



VILLA MEDICI 

Darling, above this terrace, where our grief, 
Perplexity, and strange entanglement 
Paced in a crowd around us where we went. 
Rise the enormous pines, in high relief 

Against the heaven : in a single sheaf. 

Beauty and strength are magnified and blent. 
A little while, our secret woe is spent. 
As a mad wave is spent against a reef. 

We cannot read our sorrows into Nature ; 
But let us read her beauty into them: 
Let us awhile remember that our soul 

Is tranquil too, and though of lesser stature 
Is more divine, — a bell upon the hem 
Of the High Priest who regulates the whole. 



SANTA RESTITUDINE 

VALDANIENE 

By day, above Oricola a cloud 

Huge, rounded, whitely-golden, always 

hung, — 
One of the regal regiment slow swung 
Along the Abruzzi mountains regal-browed. 
By night, the town was vanished. Once, when 
loud 
Rang the gay song, and laugh as gaily sung, 
In our own village, showers of flame were 

slung 
Aloft, far-off, upon night's inky shroud. 
'Twas fireworks in Oricola, I was told. 
For Santa Restitudine, — " a saint 
We don't believe in here." — Green, scarlet, 
gold 
Spattered the void with sparks. — What sad 
restraint 
Precludes belief, when heaven is seen to hold 
Joys unto which our mirrored j oys are faint ! 



EXHORTATION 

Ladies, parade your plumes and spreading 
skirts : 
And if the draught be chilly, pluck the lawn 
Over your powdered bosoms. Pale and 

drawn 
Comes daybreak which your carmine discon- 
certs. 
What though but salve sanguinolent exerts 
Its empire ! — ye are rosier than the dawn ; 
And lighter-footed than the fleeing fawn 
Who drops in leafy coverts while blood 
spurts. 
Exhibit glistering teeth, elusive smiles ; 
Stretch fingers to the lifted frock, the fan, 
The rebel tress. Alert ! Employ all wiles, 
Traditional and instinctive, on the man, — 
But not against him . . . Through the 

allotted miles 
Of ennui, he's your yoke-mate in the span. 



lUN 21 191^ 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



juH n 19" 



^HMMlu'lll"ffMIIlilM^ 




